The Goren Knot
by AndromedaStarr
Summary: Sequel to Mouth. Logan makes an attempt to unravel the mystery that is Bobby Goren. Mild LoganGoren slash. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

"How on earth do you get yourself out of bed in weather like this?" Eames asks as she clocks in. It's half past seven and Goren is seated at his side of the desk, an empty cup before him. He is reading what seems to be a coroner's report - she must have missed something. "What time did you get here?"

A detective whose face she knows but can't place overhears, and offers, "Maniac clocked in at half six. Don't ask me how he does it."

Eames whistles softly. "Don't you _ever_ sleep?"

"Occasionally," he answers distractedly. Eames knows her partner, his posture, his facial expressions. From the looks of things, he hasn't made a major movement for close on an hour. His right hand has a death grip on the file as he turns the pages with his left. His eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes half-closed but searching.

She knows that look. It's the look of absolute concentration, the one he gets when he puts two and two together in that unique Goren way and gets seventeen and somehow it's the right answer. He makes these leaps frequently and unerringly, and it never ceases to amaze her, to intimidate her in a way she can't quite figure out.

"Look at this," he says abruptly, setting the report down on the table as she scurries to his side. He opens his mouth, like he's about to say something infuriatingly deep and overwhelmingly accurate, something he couldn't possibly know but does anyway, and then he looks up. His lips remain parted, the epiphany unspoken, and Eames follows his gaze to see Logan drag himself through the door of Major Case. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, although he seemed fine only last night when they parted ways outside the federal prison.

"Hey, Logan," she greets him, her voice carrying across the hum of conversation in the room. "Wake up in the wrong bed this morning?"

Logan turns to her with what is probably a snappy retort on his lips, but his words seem to fail him as he registers Goren's presence. Eames feels herself frown as she looks down at her partner, then back at Logan. Goren is smiling ever so slightly, an expression nobody but her would notice on his normally expressionless face. Logan, on the other hand, looks like he's been shot. He shuts his mouth wordlessly and turns back to the coffee machine.

Eames wonders why in the hell anyone would actually want to drink station house coffee. The percolator probably hasn't been cleaned in years; every cup of coffee it makes, no matter the raw materials used or the amount of sugar and milk added, tastes like motor oil. She returns her attention to Goren. "Wonder what's eating him?"

Goren's gaze is fixed on the back of Logan's head. It's a miracle the other detective doesn't have a bald spot, the way her partner is staring. "Yes," he says calmly. "I wonder."

Eames is now thoroughly confused, but she reacts in her typical Alex Eames way and temporarily resigns herself to ignorance. "You were saying?"

Goren still hasn't taken his eyes off of Logan, who having gotten his coffee is now sitting at his desk. His thick eyebrows are pulled down and together into a unibrow that does nothing to ease the sharpness of his nose or to detract from his harsh Irish good looks. Goren stands suddenly, one of those trademark unpredictable motions that have been known to freak out perps, and pushes the file into Eames' hands. "I was saying I'll get back to you on that. Excuse me a moment."

She watches in disbelief as he crosses the distance, bends down and mutters something into Logan's ear. She watches the other detective's shoulders tighten, watches his mouth compress into a thin line, and watches as he gets to his feet and follows Goren out the door.

Bobby Goren, she reflects, is a mystery even she cannot unravel.


	2. Chapter 2

Goren is outside in the alley behind the plaza, leaning against the wall. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips, tendrils of silken smoke twisting through the crisp early morning air. He seems not to notice when Logan closes the door behind him, nor when the other detective lights his own cigarette. "I really gotta quit one of these days," Logan remarks inanely, feeling his cheeks redden and knowing it's not from the slight chill in the air.

Goren doesn't answer; Logan doesn't expect him to. Instead he draws deeply on the cigarette, the glowing end burning brighter, and exhales a cloud of smoke through his nostrils, the sign of someone who doesn't smoke often but enjoys every moment of it when he does. _Christ_, Logan thinks. _I'm starting to think like him_.

"So." He blows an expertly produced smoke ring that mingles with the nicotine haze already in the air. "What did you want to talk about?"

Goren looks at him now, focusing those brown eyes on him with all the intensity in the world. He cocks his head at an odd angle, and something of amusement enters his gaze. Still he says nothing. He prefers to leave the burden of conversation to Logan, who is well aware of this tactic but who also knows that there is nothing he can do but be the patsy. He sighs inwardly. "Last night," he begins, and trails off, unsure of what he wants to say, or even if he wants to say anything at all.

"Yes, last night," Goren says, surprising him. He is preternaturally calm, his features relaxed. "What about last night?"

A muscle works in Logan's jaw. Goren is toying with him; to hell with diplomacy and protocol. "We kissed last night," he states matter-of-factly, ignoring the leap his heart makes. "Did that happen for a reason?"

Goren gives a slight, maddening smile, and takes another pull on his cancer stick. Smoke issues from his parted lips in a slow, effortless stream. "Everything happens for a reason, Mike."

The use of his first name makes Logan want to groan aloud, and he makes an effort to dislodge his heart from the position it has taken up in his throat. "Yeah?" He's trying to be cool, to act like it means nothing to him. Like nothing Goren says has any effect on the workings of his internal organs. "So, Mr. Know-It-All, why'd you kiss me last night?"

Goren exhales a cloud of smoke. The cigarette is held between long fingers that promise to have devastating effects on Logan's sanity. His lips curl ever so slightly, and now the humour on his face is definitely not imagined. His eyes hold Logan's for a long moment, appraising, calculating. "As I recall," he says with perfect serenity, "you were the one who kissed me."

This is not going well. Words are being used but to no purpose. Logan can't stand pointless conversation; he detests the abuse of the English language that he sees so many perps employ - talking a lot but saying nothing. He runs a hand back through his hair. His cigarette is almost down to ashes and he's barely smoked it at all.

"Look," he says heavily, and takes one last drag. He drops the cigarette on the damp ground and grinds it out with his heel. "I don't know what the hell goes on in your head or why you do what you do, but believe me when I tell you that with me, things don't just happen. I didn't just kiss you 'cause I felt like it, you get that?"

Goren tilts his head back now and there is a hiss as he outs his cigarette against the brick wall. "I get it, Mike," he says softly.

Logan stands very still, breathless and feeling stranded in the midst of an emotional wreckage. The tension goes out of his body; he feels his shoulders slump slightly. He can't help feeling like an idiot, but maybe that's just the effect Bobby Goren has on him. He finds his voice at last. "Then prove it." It is quiet, almost inaudible. He wants physical proof of what he thinks he's seeing in Goren's laughing brown eyes. No more guessing. No more assumptions.

Goren shrugs, an elegant upward movement of broad shoulders ensconced in a black coat that Logan idly thinks would feel heavenly against his bare skin. It is a random thought and soon passes, but the memory of it is seared into his brain like the afterimage of a lightning strike. Logan feels goosebumps rise on the back of his neck, and his muscles spasm slightly as an involuntary shiver courses through his body.

"Okay," Goren says, and straightens up, coming off the wall and stepping toward Logan, who feels his chest tighten almost unbearably. The other man pauses mere inches away. Logan can feel the warmth of the detective's body, can smell that scent, strong on the cigarette smoke side but still with the coffee and cologne undertones. He knows that Goren will taste like fine wine, with a rich palate and notes of different flavours, but still with that inescapable magnetic tug that only serves to enthrall Logan more and more with every passing moment.

Goren leans in, and his breath ghosts over Logan's face. He takes one more step forward, bringing his body up against the Irish detective's, and Logan finds himself pinned against the wall. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, but he knows nowhere else he would be more comfortable. Goren's chest is warm and firm and feels unreasonably good, and then full lips touch Logan's.

His brain immediately shuts down, his inability to think proportionate to the degree of pleasure being created by the skilled tongue currently requesting entrance into his mouth - entrance which is willingly granted. Logan, in all his years of womanizing and the sexual excesses of his wild youth, has never encountered a better kisser than Goren. This is possibly due partly to the fact that Logan strongly believes he is in love with the man, but would also, he thinks, be undeniable to an impartial test subject experiencing the sheer ecstasy brought on by any encounter with Bobby Goren's mouth.

Goren takes his sweet time. It is a slow, leisurely kiss, precisely the way Logan likes his kisses, but then chances are Logan will like anything Goren decides to give him. He tries to wrap his mind around the idea of loving his colleague, but somehow the notion seems larger than life. Much like Goren himself.

When Goren lifts his head and steps back, Logan is breathless. His knees are rubber and can barely support his weight; he leans heavily on the wall. He sees that Goren, to his satisfaction, has finally been shaken. The look of lost composure on the other man's face is comforting in a peculiar way to Logan. It assures him that he isn't driving down a one-way street.

Goren stands looking at him for a long while before he speaks. When he does in fact utter words, they are spoken calmly, with no hint of anxiety or nervousness - he has recovered his self-possession in seemingly record time. "Come on, Mike," he says at last. "We've been a long time."

Logan stares. He has an idea he is incapable of coherent speech, and goes on to prove his point. "Uh..."

Goren reaches out and places a large hand on Logan's shoulder. The warmth of the hand sears Logan's skin through three layers of clothes with the promise of things to come. "Everything happens for a reason," he repeats. "Coincidence does not exist." His eyes meet Logan's meaningfully, accompanied by slight pressure from his fingers, and pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. The Gordian knot has slowly begun to unravel.

"And try not to look so ravaged," Goren adds gently, holding the door open for Logan. "People will talk."


End file.
